


No Hell Below Us

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fever, Fever sex, Hell Flashbacks, Hell Trauma, HoodieTimePrompt, Non-Consensual, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, SPNRambleOn, Season/Series 05, Sex, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Meg,” he says, more of an exhalation of air than anything else. His chest feels tight, constricted, and it’s suddenly harder to breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Hell Below Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vie_dangerouse](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vie_dangerouse).



> **_A/N:_** First of all: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE AMAZINGLY AWESOME **vie_dangerouse**. Thank you for such a great prompt and letting me run with it - I hope you have a great birthday.
> 
> That being said, this is the second of my two **spn_rambleon** fills. **vie_dangerouse** ’s prompt at **spn_rambleon** went thusly: _Feversex. Dean/anyone except Cas. Sorry, Cas._ Also can be seen as a fill for [this prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/464285.html?thread=5842077#t5842077) (also by **vie_dangerouse** ) from **hoodie_time** 's [He’s A Fever: A Feverish!Dean Comment-Fic Meme](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/464285.html) which was: _S5. Dean/Meg. Dean has a high fever. Meg finds that it really, really turns her on. The heat reminds her of home, and things that she and Dean used to get up to down there_.
> 
> Occurs between _5x10: ABANDON ALL HOPE_ and _5x11: SAM INTERRUPTED_ with mild spoilers for _5x10: ABANDON ALL HOPE_ and general S5 spoilers.
> 
> Special thanks to: **i_speak_tongue** for being awesome and hand-holding this through early stages and beta'ing a rough draft and **kalliel** for bottle-feeding this baby through its toddlerhood and doing a rock hard beta and challenging me to amp the sex…
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Also, I do not own _Imagine_ by John Lennon – just borrowing the lyrics for the title, so don’t sue.
> 
>  ** _Extra Warnings:_** dub-con scenario, non-con/rape aftermath, humiliation/power, extortion.

When Dean gets out of the shower, Sam’s gone and for a moment it feels like _last year_ when he’d wake up alone, gasping and slicked in cold sweat from Hell-nightmares. He shrugs off the memory and opens the door, gooseflesh pimpling on his arms and torso as he steps out of the steamy bathroom and into the cooler room beyond, a faded sage-green towel slung low around his hips. By the time he reaches his bed, he’s beginning to shiver, despite his skin feeling hot and tight. _Fever. Awesome._ There’s a text on his phone and the fear quickly ebbs, leaving a dull emptiness in its wake. He barely glances at the message — it’s from Sam, timestamped forty-six minutes ago, telling him he’ll bring a pizza when he returns. Dean doesn’t bother responding. There’s no point and he just needs space and time after…

He swallows thickly, convulsively, remembering Jo’s pale, brave face framed by sweaty blonde waves, the fear visible in her dark eyes, despite her set jaw and stiff, locked-up muscles, the way she trembled in his hands as he kissed her, not wanting anyone to know how terrified she was, and Ellen’s _kick it in the ass_.

A sharp knocking jolts him out of his thoughts. He crosses the room and opens the door revealing—

“Hello, Deano,” a petite leather-jacket-wearing brunette says, leaning up against the doorjamb, her arms at her sides, hands buried in the front pockets of her jeans, thumbs hooked in the belt loops. A smirk plays at her cherry-red lips and her expression is smug when he doesn’t answer right away. “Awww. Cat’s got your tongue? I’m hurt. Don’tcha remember? We had lots of fun in Hell.” She straightens, pushing away from the wall, shouldering her way into the room. Her movements are easy, relaxed, but there’s an undercurrent of threat.

“Meg,” he says, more of an exhalation of air than anything else. His chest feels tight, constricted, and it’s suddenly harder to breathe.

“And Bingo was his name-o.” She steps up to him, reaching up to tug at the strings of her hooded sweatshirt, stepping into the room and kicking the door shut behind her with the heel of her boot. “Alastair would be very, very disappointed. Look at you: former valdectorian. Teacher’s Pet. Best torturer Hell’s seen in a few milennia.” She pauses, cocks her head, and smiles. It’s the look of someone who’s slipped arsenic in the tea and is waiting for the show to start. “I was just second-best. The salutatorian no one cared about. The one who couldn’t hold a candle to the great Dean Winchester. And now look at you. All wrecked up and broken. Can’t even stand up to a few Hellhounds. Couldn’t even save a pathetic human girl who had to cover his ass when he tripped over his own feet...”

“You leave Jo out of this,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard, his breath shallow and rapid. He’s sweltering. Sweat pools in his armpits and run down his back and he feels sick to his stomach. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

“Aw. That’s sweet,” Meg lowers her chin and looks up at him through her eyelashes mock-adoringly. A moment later she blinks, meets his gaze, her eyes hard and cold. For an instant Dean thinks he sees them flip beetle-black and shiny. “She was collateral damage and you know it. This is big. Far bigger than what any of us can possibly imagine. Lucifer’s walking the earth and if you think one puny exorcism that couldn’t save a poor girl from Amherst is going to stop him...” She frowns in mock-sadness. “Well, you’ve got another thought coming.”

“Shut up.” Dean voice cracks as he takes a step backwards.

“What was that?” Meg takes another step closer.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” His voice is steadier and he resists the urge to rub his arms, swearing the temperature’s dropped.

“Ooooh. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” She pauses, takes another step forward, gently swaying her hips.

“Cute. I think I’ve heard that one before. You’re losing your touch.” Dean interrupts, recoiling slightly as she steps closer, willing himself to remain rooted in his spot, feeling his dick prickle to attention, hating the automatic response his body has towards her. _Still_.

Meg doesn’t say a word as she closes the gap between them and he can smell the sulfur rolling off her, rotten and overpowering. He gulps spasmodically, suppressing his gag reflex as he catches a glimpse of the demon beneath the mask she wears. Her eyes flicker downwards for a second and, from the way she purses her lips, he knows she’s seen his erection tenting the towel.

“Huh,” she says. “Some things don’t change.” She grins. “It’s like riding a bicycle, isn’t it? There’re some things you just don’t forget. Alastair would be so proud,” she purrs.

And he wants to puke.

She presses up even closer placing her hands on his shoulders, one of them curling around to line up with the handprint scar, eyes studying the raised brand with interest. Her palms burn against his skin, hotter than the fever sweat. He pants raggedly as she trails her fingers along his arm, fingernails raking fiery tracks into his flesh.

Then somehow the towel’s on the floor and his back’s bouncing against the filthy orange-green bedcovers and she’s on him, straddling his legs, sitting on his kneecaps and he wonders when she got naked.

She’s stretched along his length, all cool-hot and he thinks they’re bursting into flames like they used to, _back then_ , down below.

She reaches down and palms his dick, closing her hand around it. “You’re broken, Dean Winchester,” she whispers huskily. “If only Alastair could see who’s the stronger one now…” and he can hear the lusty desire in her voice, and when he meets her eyes, they are full of jealousy. “I’ve always outlasted you, you know…”

His body, his hands remember her curves and he drags her underneath him. He isn’t gentle, can feel the steel demon strength beneath his hands and he grips her biceps hard enough to bruise if she wasn’t… “Don’t count on it,” he grits out a second before he mashes his mouth against hers, biting it forcefully and she lets out a hard, ugly sound of pleasure as he thrusts deep and mercilessly inside her. The tight passage of her meatsuit clenches around him and it’s better than it was in Hell. He pulls back, easing out slightly. Her vulva quivers around him. “You’re forgetting who trained me. Quid pro quo.” He waits, watching her squirm, feeling her shuddering apart. And Alastair’s tutelage takes over. He isn’t sure what he’s competing with her for this time and he isn’t sure what he wants from her, only that he needs to gain the upper hand, whatever it is.

She growls at him in equal parts frustration and anger. She thrashes, hooking her legs around his hips and with a thrust, sheaths him deeply into her. And he’s blazing like a comet and he’s hurtling towards Earth and there’s nothing to stop him.

She flips him over and, straddling him, fucks him long and hard, milking him, turning him inside out. He loses time and is only aware of the Hell-heat pouring from him and the cold air and her cool, slick skin that makes him shiver and curl into her, craving relief. The fever builds and he knows he’s losing ground

When, with one last deep, bruising thrust, her fingers raking bloody tracks on his biceps, her knees crushing his hips—

She makes him come in a bright supernova flare

And then there’s nothing.

**::: ::: :::**

When Dean comes around, it’s in a room he doesn’t recognize and he’s soaked to the skin, the drenched sheets entangled around his limbs, torso. He pushes them from his body and the motion leaves him feeling impossibly weak. He’s grateful to find he’s in boxer shorts at least, his dick flaccid beneath the thin cotton. He rolls onto his side and draws up his legs, cupping his hand around it protectively.

“I had to move us—” Sam’s voice is gentle, patient, as though he’s trying to soothe a traumatized victim. He pauses, exhales sharply and stands from his chair. “Shit, Dean, the room reeked—”

_Sex. Sulfur._

He can still smell it on him.

“—And you were out of your mind. God, Dean, I—” He doesn’t finish his sentence and Dean catches the worry and fear in Sam’s eyes and he knows he’s put them there. He doesn’t want to think about what Sam might have found. If Meg’d still been…

“It’s okay. You did good.” His voice is flat and listless, even to his own ears.

He shifts around on the mattress and closes his eyes, shutting Sam out, the bitter iron tang of disgust and self-loathing filling his mouth. He clenches his jaw hard. He knows he lost control… and for what? He feels strangely hollowed out, empty and dissatisfied, as though Meg’s won somehow. Yet, he remembers the frown of vague disappointment on her face right before blacking out.

They’d both gained nothing.

He hears Sam exhale. “Get some sleep, dude. You look like crap and we got a hunt in Oklahoma.” And there’s the sound of Sam moving around the motel room, the creak of the other bed as he settles on it, then the soft tapping of laptop keys.

It lulls him with its familiarity.

Restless images of Meg and Hell and Jo fill his dreams and he sloughs aimlessly through murky green-gray-red-brown nightmares. After a long time, the remnants of the fever must loosen their grip, releasing him, because he sleeps.


End file.
